Every Single Thought (That Is Beautiful)
by roumiwrites
Summary: Every year on Valentine's day, Dean gets literally buried under cards and chocolates, but all he cares about is that one anonymous note. Primary School/High School/College!AU, Human!Destiel, Fluff, Smexy (though in future chapters because it begins when they are still underage).
1. 6th grade

**I'm starting this fic hoping to finish it soon, because the whole story is (for once) completely finished in my mind, and just has to be written (meh). There are no angels or wings or demons or whatever, it's an 'all-human' AU. It will be in 4 parts (6th grade, 8th grade/high school, 11th grade and college). Just your usual Dean and Cas and slowly falling in love through the years :)  
**

**This has been written+posted while I was half asleep. I will probably embellish it a bit later. But I promise the next parts will be better taken care of.**

**Dedicated to Riikka who is wonderful and apparently loves school!AUs. Double wonderful, yay!**

**PS: when between [] it means that it's what they see.**

* * *

_Sixth grade_

* * *

Cas stared at the piece of crumpled paper in his little palm and started chewing thoughtfully on his pen.

He was going to do like everybody else and write a poem for Dean Winchester.

At hardly twelve years old Dean Winchester was the heartthrob of the school and he was well aware of it, using his good looks as a tool to get whatever he wanted and get away with almost everything. Bad grades, daily fights, he never got punished or reprimanded for any of those.

His looks, his cheeky attitude, his wrinkled and patched up clothes, it all gave off some sort of powerful attraction and nobody was immune to it — especially not Cas. In fact, the dark-haired boy had been pinning for Dean since he had known him.

In their school it had become almost a custom that on Valentine's Day Dean got not less than twenty something messages and cards and bags of candy and e-mails and what-not else. It had all started something like a couple of years ago, when a girl from another class confessed her love on his Facebook wall because she was too shy and not beautiful enough to tell him in person like all the other girls, and the next day Dean had come to her and kissed her in front of the whole school, before telling her that he found her '_super_ _awesome_'.

They were only nine years old at that time, and a year later all the girls had started writing him poems and sending him all sorts of gifts, hoping to get his attention too. There wasn't a day where he didn't find a little love note stuck inside the door of his locker, or an invitation to be friends on Facebook, or his initials engraved on the trees in the courtyard beside somebody else's. But Valentine's Day was the most important one, because only on that day Dean would make an effort to read most of the messages he got and he'd pick his favorite one and do something kind for that person, as some sort of repayment for the trouble, as he liked to say.

Cas sighed as the only words that came to his mind were '_Dean, I love you_'. He couldn't write that. Not that he didn't want to; he knew he loved Dean with all his youthful heart, and he wanted nothing more than to let him know the truth, but it was all so terrifying! What if he got rejected? Cas didn't know if he could bear it. Loving someone from afar was easy — he could always hope that some day, Dean would turn around and their gazes would meet, Dean finally noticing him and maybe... maybe asking him out? But if he told him and the answer was nothing but a blunt '_no', _or God forbid, if he was _laughed at _for ever thinking he had a chance, the dream would shatter and he wouldn't be able to hide behind '_maybes_' and '_somedays_' anymore.

The other reason he couldn't just write his feelings down was that he didn't want to be just another anonymous message. He wanted to impress the subject of his affection, he wanted to surprise him, to stand out; he wanted to be really, really, _really_ _special_ to him. He wanted to be _so_ special that after reading it Dean would suddenly want to find out the name of the person who wrote _that _note, and not just dismiss it as he did with all the others.

Cas had first tried to write a short poem about Dean's eyes — they weren't just green, Cas had noticed once when Dean was facing the sun that there were small golden flakes swirling in the pools of deep green, and he had found himself staring mesmerized at them until Dean had blinked and turned around to laugh with his friends, completely obvious to everybody else.

But then Cas had thought about all the people that must have complimented him about his eyes and he had torn the poem in shreds before throwing it in his already half-full trash bin.

Cas had spent days thinking about what he should write, and the more he had tried to come up with something original, the more he had started to lose hope. There was nothing he could tell Dean that he didn't already know, or that he hadn't already been told _thousands _of times. Yes, he was pretty. Yes, his jokes were always so funny. Yes, he did have amazing brown hair. Yes, he smelled good. Yes, he could run really fast. Done, done, all had already been _more_ than done.

And now, the day before Valentine's Day, Cas was staring at a blank piece of paper, his heart full but his head so _empty_.

Then the bell rang, announcing the end of last period and Cas blinked, coming back to reality just in time to see the back of Dean's head before he nearly ran out of the classroom. With a deep, defeated sigh, Cas watched the others pack their stuff and before he knew it, he found himself all alone in the deserted classroom.

With another, louder sigh, Cas stood up and then... on a sudden impulse, he took the pen out of his mouth and wrote down his note, completely freaked out, hands shaking with nerves, doing it quickly before he could change his mind, folding it trice before leaving it on top of Dean's desk as he was passing by. Then he clutched one strap of his bag and ran out of the classroom as fast as he could, his little face bright red and his hands sweaty with emotion.

It was finally done.

There was no coming back, now.

* * *

_Reasons why you should_ _date me:_

_[blotch]_

_[bigger blotch]_

Dean burst out laughing in the middle of his math test, and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand when he met the teacher's pissed off gaze. He was aware that every eyes were on him but he hadn't been expecting this when he had decided to go through the stack of cards and anonymous notes piling on his desk.

When he finally managed to get his serious back, the teacher rolled his eyes at him and looked away.

But then Dean made the mistake of looking down again at the piece of paper in his hand and there was no helping it.

He dissolved into laughter again, this time accompanied by a couple of loud hiccups.

And he got thrown out of the class.

And he got a zero on his math test.

But he couldn't care less. That note was absolutely hilarious.

* * *

When they were in sixth grade, for the first time, Dean didn't choose anyone on Valentine's Day. But neither did he go around asking about the author of that unusual note.

So Cas comforted himself with the thought that at least, he had made Dean laugh — even though it had been inadvertently. He just hadn't known what to say and in a fit of panic he had scribbled over the 'I love you', and then over the 'I love you so much', leaving an unfinished and really dirty, inelegant note.


	2. 8th grade

**Hello again! I wanted to thank you for your nice reviews, ****_you_**** are adorable! Thanks for motivating me, and I hope you'll like the 2nd chapter just as much! Kid!Sam ahead, by the way (I just love little Sammy so much, even in a normal family I'm convinced he'd still be your sassy little prodigy kid). Also if Google hasn't lied to me, 8th grade means Dean is 14 now, and Sam 11 :)  
**

* * *

_8th grade_

* * *

This year, Dean had decided he was going to uncover his mysterious fan.

Last year he'd gotten a new message from them on Valentine's Day, and it had been a tad more eloquent than the first one (which he would forever remember with a fond smile), but then to his surprise he had also found a second one shortly after his mother died from cancer. It had been left on his desk at some point again, and as soon as he had unfolded it Dean had recognized the neat handwriting from the first two messages, not really understanding why his brain had memorized such a dumb thing as somebody's handwriting. Although short and rather straight to the point, that message had felt... _comforting_ — okay, in a really strange and really_ creepy_ way.

That anonymous girl had been the only one of his admirers who had cared enough to leave him some kind words about his mother. If he was honest with himself — and that rarely happened —, Dean had felt tears rise to his eyes and it had almost startled him. He hadn't cried once since his mother passed away. He was the only one at the funeral with dry eyes, jaw set tight and body stiff between his father's arms as he was holding his two boys close to him. Dean had listened to Sam cry himself to sleep for days after she was gone, with his heart heavy in his chest, but not once had he cried. Dean had felt so _lost _and so damn _hollow _at that time, he hadn't even been able to find it in him to _cry_.

But then one day he had entered his classroom and found that little note neatly folded in the middle of his desk, and it had only taken a bunch of words to unravel him completely, leaving him open and raw, and with the sudden _need_ to find the person who had written this — find them for what? He hadn't know. He had just _needed._

_I'm so sorry for your loss, Dean. She's in a better place now. And wherever she is, I know she must be proud of you._

Dean had ran out of the classroom because he hadn't wanted his friends to see him burst into tears because of a freaking note. He had to keep his whole 'rough and tough' reputation, after all.

So yeah, Dean had felt comforted by some unknown person who was apparently so obsessed with him that they knew exactly what to tell him and how to pull his most sensitive strings. He really liked what all those messages taught him about that girl's personality. She was clever and funny in an unexpected way, and Dean wasn't always sure she had really meant to be funny or if it was just how she talked. She first come out as clumsy and shy, needing some time before she was comfortable enough to be herself. Usually Dean liked the bolder type better, but now that he was having this one-sided correspondence, he had realized that shy and nerdy wasn't a total turn off. Rather the contrary. In fact, he had lost count of the times he had pictured himself finally meeting her and _talking_ to her. Just freaking _talking_ with a girl. And if that wasn't weird for someone who wasn't usually very verbal.

After that, Dean had found more and more unsigned messages, and his guess was that the girl was slowly getting confident, probably from watching his reactions from afar while he was discovering them; some made him laugh, others blink faster to chase away the tears (_he wasn't going to cry like a girl, even though he was quickly learning that carefully chosen words had a real power over him_), and others just made him regret he had no way of knowing who was hiding behind the messages. Dean was bringing every single one home since the first time (that one he had actually kept so he could show it to Sam because it was funny), stocking them in an old shoebox under his bed and sometimes he would go through them and wish he had a way of finding that person. He needed to reply to all that kindness. It wasn't in his nature to stay on the receiving side; he needed to tell her how thankful he was for the trouble she was going through, and he also felt she too needed someone to talk to, someone who would comfort her, seeing how much care she was putting into trying to lift _his_ spirits. If he knew anything for certain about her, it was that she was lonely, and that didn't feel right with him. Even though he didn't know _jack _about her, he wanted her to be happy and to be surrounded by friends who cared about her. He just wished her the best, because she deserved it.

He also thought of the mysterious sender as a girl because he had no reasons to think otherwise. It didn't even come to his mind that the author of those notes could be a boy.

Head resting on his palm, Dean turned his head to the right and as it had become his habit for a week now, he studied his classmates as he made the mental list of who could be his mystery girl.

After leaving out all the boys, there were only 6 girls who had been in his class since 6th grade or before. First there was Jo Harvelle, but Dean was pretty sure it wasn't her because he had spent the whole year asking her out only to get gently (but firmly) blown out. So unless she was seriously twisted...

Then there was Lisa Braeden. Who he had been dating until recently. Their idyllic relationship had lasted for something like a week. And Dean was also sure it wasn't her because he knew he handwriting and all in all, none of those messages sounded like something she would write.

After that came Becky Rosen. When Dean looked at her the blond-haired girl caught his gaze and winked at him, and Dean quickly turned the other way, almost breaking his neck as he did so. Becky was _obsessed _with him alright, and Dean could have thought she was the one sending all those messages but then again, every year on Valentine's Day he and Sam would get Becky's cards and sadly enough, Dean knew her handwriting well enough too and there was just no way he would have missed the big round letters, the girlish phrasings (she used the words "cute" and "adorable" as fillers in every single one of her sentences) or the way she always drew little hearts on her "i"s.

The other three girls he didn't know well, but from what he knew after sharing a classroom for more than three years on a row, none of them fit with the personality of his mystery girl.

With a defeated sigh, Dean let his gaze wander to the window, losing himself in his thoughts and plans to find his mystery girl.

Sitting behind Becky, a boy with raven black hair and big blue eyes was resting his chin on his hands, staring longingly at Dean's profile.

* * *

"Dude, what the hell is this?"

When Dean came home from school he found little Sam sitting on his bed, shoebox resting between his legs, hands full of notes he was visibly going through.

"That's private, Sammy!"

Dean quickly grabbed the box and snatched the pieces of paper from his little brother's hands.

"I told you to keep your paws off my stuff! It's the freaking _rule_s, Sammy!"

Sam scoffed as he watched his brother bitch and moan and turn every shades of red — from anger to embarrassment to anger again. Sam decided it was cute.

"So," he started when Dean had finally calmed down, box held protectively against his chest. "Are you planning on explaining this shit?" He asked, gesturing to the box.

Dean considered ignoring the little gnome and just ask him to leave his room, but then he knew Sam as if he'd made him, and he knew the nosy bitch would only get even more curious and probably go through his stuff again at the next occasion. And that couldn't do. Dean kept really _private _things under his bed, beside the shoebox. Things he considered Sam too young to know of yet. He was only 11, after all, and even though he was already smarter than Dean, there were still things he wanted to protect him from, as long as he could. And his November edition of Busty Asians was one of them.

He chewed on his lower lip, Sam watching him expectantly, before finally thrusting the box into Sam's arms again and letting himself drop on the bed beside his brother, nudging him with his knee to make room for him.

"OK, I'm going to tell you. But first I want you to promise you won't enter this room _ever again_. Am I being clear?"

"Crystal clear," Sam replied with a smile.

Dean held his gaze defiantly, but when Sam gave him the puppy eyes he couldn't do anything else but yield. Damn that manipulative little shit.

Looking down to the box, Dean put it between them and it took him a while but when he eventually found what he was looking for, he unfolded it and gave it to his little brother. Sam took the note and there was a smile of recognition.

"Oh, it's that message you got two years ago, right? You kept it? Why?"

"Well," Dean replied, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, "I found it funny, so... I don't know, I wanted to keep it."

Sam nodded, and Dean refused to meet his gaze because who knew what was going on in that little clever head. He was a bit afraid of what he would see behind those eyes, actually. Not judgment, he knew his brother would never be _that_ kind of douche. He was afraid of his brother understanding something Dean didn't know yet. It happened quite often, Sam guessing what Dean was about to do or say or how he felt just by listening to the way he stepped when he went down the stairs, and it was annoying at times, and comforting at others, because Dean didn't need to explain himself — Sam just knew — but this time it was something really private, it was about Dean keeping things out of _sentimentality_. This was about feelings, he knew that, and he really, _really_ didn't need to see Sam's pitiful gaze whenever Dean was trying to shield away from expressing too much, or letting himself feel freely like everybody else. Rough and tough, remember? It was way easier than to deal with emotions.

When Sam said nothing, Dean decided it was safe to go on.

"The next year I got another one on Valentine's Day," he said, fishing the message out of the box and giving it to Sam again, who read it but remained silent this time. It was easier for Dean to explain when he wasn't interrupted every time.

They went through most of the messages, Dean explaining every time when exactly he had found them, how he had started to get more of them after their mother passed away, and when he was finally done talking the silence felt strangely _deafening_. When he looked at the clock, his eyes widened. He had been talking for _2 fucking hours_. He was pretty sure he'd never talked so much in his whole damn life. And he sure as hell didn't know what to do with this information, now.

Sam was still going through the notes that were left, and Dean watched his lips move as he was reading them slowly, little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth whenever it was a funny one.

"_Have a nice day, Dean_," he started reading out loud, "_have a nice day, Dean; I hope you got good grades on your test; I missed you so much yesterday, I hope you are feeling better today; Have a nice day, Dean_... Wow, Dean, this person sounds..."

"Yeah?" Dean prompted, curious to know what his brother thought of his mystery girl.

But then Sam's eyes went round when he started reading yet another message.

"This one's about me," he whispered before proceeding to read it out loud too: "I saw your brother Sam this morning, he was with Dick Roman and Fergus McLeod. They were harassing him and shoving him against his locker and I didn't know what to do, but I thought you needed to know. Everybody was watching but nobody stood up for your brother, and it was disgusting. I'm disgusted with myself too for not having the guts to do anything, and the only one I can think of now is you. Please, do something. I wish to protect Sam as much as I'm sure you do too."

Sam looked up and Dean noticed his eyes were a little red.

"Dean," he whispered again, "it was you? Dick and Fergus stopped harassing me because you beat the crap out of them? For me?"

"Fuck yeah it was me," Dean replied forcefully. "I'm not letting anyone annoy my little brother _but me_, and these dicks had it coming for a long time anyway."

"They asked you to help me... Oh, Dean."

"What?"

When Sam only stared at him, Dean felt panic rise.

"_What?_"

"The person who's writing you all of these... Dean, they must be _so in love_ with you."

"The hell? She's a creeper, that's what she is."

"Don't be a jerk."

"Don't be a brat."

"_Dean!_"

"OK, OK, whatever you say!" Dean said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Sam punched his shoulder for good measure before putting all the messages back in the box.

"She never... actually said... that she... _loved_ me, you know."

_Well_, he thought with a grimace, _that came out real smooth._

"Who?"

"My mystery girl."

Sam looked up and blinked once.

"Who?" He asked again, brow creasing.

"My _mystery girl_," Dean insisted, gesturing to the box. "That's how I call her."

"Why do you think they're a girl? I don't remember them saying anything about it."

It was Dean's turn to frown.

"Well, it's a bit _obvious_ she's a girl, Sammy."

"Why so?"

"Well, because..."

Dean's hands were moving, but there were no words coming from his mouth. Hard as he tried, when he was faced with the fact, he actually didn't know why he was thinking of the anonymous author as a girl. Maybe because he wanted them to be one?

"... just... because!" He finally spluttered, before mentally slapping himself across the face for his eloquence.

"Dean, what if it's a boy?"

"What the hell?"

His voice didn't sound strangely hight-pitched. Nope. No way. He wasn't freaking out.

"At one point in your story you said you wanted to find _'her'_, and that you've had no luck for over a year now. But what if it's because you never considered that possibility? What if your _'mystery girl'_ is a mystery b—"

Dean silenced his little brother with a hand on his mouth, and when Sam tried to get away he let him.

"Are you scared that a guy loves you, Dean?"

"What? No!"

"So are you scared of being gay?"

"Jesus, Sammy, I'm not _gay_, could you shut up for a minute?"

"Look", Sam eventually said, putting his hand on Dean's forearm and squeezing lightly. "Promise me you will keep looking for them, be it boy or girl, and that when you find them you will tell them I said thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

"Well... for telling you my secret," Sam joked, his smile a bit forced, though.

"About that. If you ever have this kind of problems again, you _tell me_, OK? Don't make me learn it from some anonymous g... whatever."

"OK, Dean. Chill, it just happened once or twice, you know. I'm not a _victim_."

"Yeah, you wish."

"Shut up."

* * *

Cas was walking down the hallway to his locker, Jo by his side trying to get him to sign some petition of some sort when something or someone shoved him hard from behind, making him stumble on his feet, his bag sliding from his shoulder before falling on the ground.

"Jerk," Jo yelled beside him, "watch where you're going!"

Cas felt Jo put a hand on his shoulder as he was quickly going on his knee to pick his bag. He was beaten to it by the person who ran into him, and when he looked up his bag was hanging just in front of his face. Looking just a little higher and Cas' mouth fell slightly open when he met the most gorgeous green eyes. They were shining with remorse and apology, and... interest, maybe?

Cas gulped loudly before standing clumsily up.

"Thank you," he breathed out, accepting his bag, careful to avoid touching the other's hand.

"Sorry," Dean said, pointing the hallway behind himself with his thumb, "I'm late for class and I wasn't looking... wait, aren't we together?"

"_What__?_" Cas all but yelped.

"Aren't we... in the same class?" Dean corrected himself tentatively.

Cas felt his cheeks start to burn and he immediately looked at his feet, trying to hide his blush of embarrassment. He felt more than saw Jo's eyes bore holes into his skull but he couldn't look at her.

_Of course he meant you were together in the same class, you idiot; calm down!_

"We don't have class now," Jo said a bit too harshly. "Mr. Wyatt is sick, it's free period."

Cas was endlessly grateful that she was speaking up because he was afraid of what his voice would sound like right at the moment. He felt like his insides were _boiling_ with excitement and fear and just... _nerves_.

Dean Winchester was talking to him, after all.

_Holy shit!_

"Yeah? Oh, that's awesome. OK, sorry again, um... Lee, right?"

Cas felt his heart freeze in his chest, and it fucking _hurt_. The grin that had been tugging at his lips since he'd noticed Dean turned into something sad and miserable as he slowly looked up to meet Dean's amiable gaze again.

"You... you don't know my name?" He asked, voice hoarse, blinking fast when his eyes started to sting.

He refused to cry in front of Dean, but it was almost impossible to hold back the tears.

* * *

"You don't know my name?"

Dean blinked, not sure why the boy was suddenly looking at him with that kicked puppy face. Wasn't his name Lee Stanford? It was either that or the other weird sounding name he could never get right.

"You're not Lee? Ah, sorry—"

He was about to ask him what was his real name but the boy didn't even give him the time. He just turned around and ran away.

_The hell?_ Dean thought when the boy disappeared behind a corner.

He looked questioningly at Jo, who was actually glaring at him.

"God, you're such a _dick_."

"_What?_"

But instead of answering him she turned her back to him too and strolled away, leaving him alone in the now deserted hallway.

"What the hell have I said?" He asked himself out loud.

_What the hell?_


End file.
